


Six Lines

by Whreflections



Series: Soulmates OT7 verse [1]
Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Alcohol, Child Abuse, Episode Related, Episode: s04e01 Mayhem, Episode: s04e07 Memoriam, F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi, Non-Graphic Child Sexual Abuse, OT7, Past Rape/Non-con, Season/Series 04, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-25
Updated: 2014-10-07
Packaged: 2018-02-18 17:36:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2356793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whreflections/pseuds/Whreflections
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Having six soulmate lines on your arm is just about guaranteed to get everyone you meet talking.  It's not unheard of, but it's rare, whispered about, but here's the thing all those people with one line never have occasion to realize- love doesn't divide, it multiplies, and being one of seven is both blessing and curse.  </p><p>Sure, while it's going good, you're safe and loved and the seven of you, you're unstoppable.  At the same time, though, having more people you love so deeply the bond is built into your very physiology also means that at the end of the day, you have more to lose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1. Spencer Reid

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AwesomeTeaPanda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AwesomeTeaPanda/gifts).



> Warnings are for stuff from upcoming chapters- this first one is pretty tame, only a T. 
> 
> I'll tag the fic with pairings/groups actively in scene in individual chapters as they go up, but keep in mind in this fic there's 7 of them in a fully overlapping poly relationship, so any combination of that could show up in this verse. 
> 
> Basically, this is what happens when I've been craving OT7 fic for these guys for years and no one's written it, and I then realize I've also never written a soulmate AU. I hope some of you out there enjoy this, :)

_Before_

The older he got, the more Spencer grew to hate the marks.  They wrapped around his wrist dormant but undeniable, an intricate weave of six lines that marked him the member of what he’d heard called a unit.  As a boy, he’d initially been thrilled and fascinated, sat down with his mother to read everything he could about the relatively rare soulmate configurations that resulted in marks like his. 

In the earliest days of recorded human history, they’d been called packs, seen as a throwback to their wild counterparts.  Since then cultures the world over had given them a thousand different names, a million different levels of significance.  They had been revered and reviled, some ruling empires while others continents away were killed at birth for the braids on their skin.  In most current cultures, they had seemed, from his reading, to find a middle ground- people like him were _people_ like any others, sometimes best suited as a whole to group tasks in the military or in business but more often than not beyond their inevitable complicated paperwork for benefits and registration, they lived ordinary lives. 

Back then, it was all exciting, full of possibility and the way his mother would smile as she held his hand in hers, her fingertips tracing over the lines that would one day flare to life.  She believed in pre-activation connection, was sure that somewhere out there whether he could feel it or not, in _some_ way, every one of those six unknowns was looking out for him.  For a time he’d believed her, could remember skimming his thumb over the pattern by the light of a blue nightlight as he nestled in to sleep, hoping his whispered _goodnight_ might travel to each of them like tin can messages down a half dozen strings. 

With his social status at school, it didn’t take long for all of that to change.  To them he was little more than the chess-playing-answer-rambling-book-reading freak who skipped through grades the way they passed through chapters of their lessons.  Uncool, unworthy, unfit for a baseball team much less a unit.  With his memory, he filed away every word, every jab. 

_Have you seen his wrist?  Has to be a mistake; who could put up with Spencer?_

_I bet you cut those into your arm, didn’t you?  I bet you’d know just how to fake them, make everyone think you’re special.  You’re such a loser, Spencer._

_If you hold him down and count, there’s six lines, like those magicians at the Bellagio.  Bet he wants to be just like them; bet his marks are defective._

He took to long sleeves, to wristbands that covered them.  It was better to be teased about the likelihood that he had none than to be told he couldn’t possibly have so many(at least, it seemed better, marginally.  Realistically, both dealt more damage than a kid should have needed to bear.).  Ripped bare on the goalpost, arms tied above his wrists, he could do nothing but listen as the taunts ranged from his nakedness to his marks, the pitch of laugher rising and rising and rising until he was sure he’d have it ringing in his ears for days beyond count. 

That was the night he’d clawed helplessly at his wrist at 2 AM on the floor beside his bed, tears blurring on his glasses until he ripped them from his face and threw them hard enough to bounce on the carpet. 

He fell asleep that night curled up in the corner, his wrist raw and red and bleeding from a mess of shallow cuts and still, the marks showed through.  Exhausted and sore, he’d covered the evidence of his breakdown with gauze before his mother could see, but she’d caught his wrist and kissed it even so.  When it mattered, _really_ mattered, she never entirely missed the mark. 

Smiling, she’d cupped his face in her hands. 

“Spencer, tell me the population of Las Vegas.”

“312,634.”

She nodded slow, thumbs smoothing across his cheeks.  “Alright.  And the population of the world outside Las Vegas?”

“Mom—“

“Just answer, Spencer; for me.” 

“Around five and a half billion, estimates vary based on—“

“Five and a half _billion_ , sweetheart.”  She pulled him close and kissed his forehead, held him until he gave in and wrapped his arms around her waist.  “You’ll find them.  Maybe when you leave Vegas, but you’ll find them.  I know it.” 

 

_After_

An hour and thirty-seven minutes after he’d thrown his bags down by the bed, Spencer heard the knock at his door.  More than anything ,he was mostly surprised it’d taken that long.  The only uncertainty, really, was who exactly might be on the other side.  (It was hard to calculate the probability on the way to the door; too many variables.  He knew only that JJ was still in the hospital, and Morgan and Garcia were likely to have stayed with her- they’d seemed to believe him when Spencer had told them he was absolutely alright, that he’d see them tomorrow.  Their percentage chance was low, maybe 5% each, if that.)  

A quick precautionary glance out gave him his answer, and he opened the door to David Rossi, leaning against the frame without a suit coat but in the same rumpled shirt and jeans he’d worn on the flight home.  His smile was a little thin, a little tired, still as warm as it ever was.    

“Hey, kid.  If you want to be alone, I get it, I just thought—“

“No, no, it’s okay.”  More than okay, if he was honest.  He’d come here with every intention of thinking alone, but an hour a half in he’d already realized giving his mind a chance to skim back over all he’d learned in Vegas didn’t make for the healthiest experience.  Spencer swallowed heavily, reached out to let his hand trail down Rossi’s arm as he stepped back.  “It’s okay.  Come on in.” 

No sooner had he taken a step back than Rossi was right there, moving right into his space and nudging the door closed with his heel.  His hand was solid and warm as it cupped Reid’s jaw, his movements certain but gentle as he leaned in for a kiss.  The familiarity of it was soothing, the rasp of his beard, the way his grip tightened when Spencer hummed gratefully at the stroke of his tongue.  Less familiar was the taste of him, clouded by a lingering tinge of smoke.  Spencer could smell it too, caught on his shirt, his hair.  As long as he’d known him, he’d never seen Rossi with a cigarette. 

He’d never tasted smoke on anyone, either.  Spencer licked his lips reflexively as he pulled away, cataloguing the difference.  “I didn’t know you smoked.”  Muttered under his breath, it sounded at least a little accusatory, though he hadn’t meant it to. 

Rossi shrugged, the new tilt to his smile giving away that while he hadn’t exactly meant to be called out, he wasn’t surprised, either.  “Old habits.  It’s one I don’t go back to all that often, but sometimes after a rough case…I don’t know, something comforting about picking up a pack and smoking a few at home.”

Spencer half smiled, caught for a moment in memory.  “My mom, she…before the paranoia got too bad, when she’d fight it she’d smoke, pace from the kitchen down the hall and back.  She said it calmed her down.” 

“And you never liked it.”  Between all of them, the profiling was so constant it was never a surprise, not even when it was hard.  This one, it’s so easy it’s hardly profiling at all. 

“No, I didn’t.  I told her the same thing I told the woman in Vegas, with the money the—not the hypnosis part, the first part when she lit up.  I—come here.”  Spencer caught Rossi’s wrist, pulled him toward the couch so they could settle onto it together, his back to Rossi’s chest.  The contact was a comfort he hadn’t realized he needed until he felt it, the rush of weight slipping from his lungs as David’s arms circled around to pull him close.  Here, back in DC with a man he loved anchoring him, the world seemed to spin a little slower.  The breath he let out was shaken; he could hear the waver in it.

Rossi continued almost as if he hadn’t noticed, his only tell a slight brush of his lips against Spencer’s neck.  “That first part, what was it you told her?”

“Statistically speaking if you calculate average cigarette damage into time, every cigarette you smoke takes six minutes off your life.  So say you smoked half a pack before coming over here, if you stick to the standard of most American companies that’s ten cigarettes; at six minutes each that’s a whole hour of your life none of us will get to spend with you.”  He trailed off at the end, his voice dropping softer as his hand found David’s, his slim fingers slipping between to leave them intertwined.  Skin to skin, the lines on their wrists that flared to life with proximity seemed to glow just a little brighter, shimmering with tremulous light.  The sight mesmerized him, every single time. 

Working on his chemistry PhD, he’d once read a paper by a biochemistry doctoral student who had readily undergone operation on his own arm to better examine the function of the light glands, to determine as much as he could about the source and manner of secretion, the physical processes of it all.  His research was fascinating, giving way to increased speculation as to the evolutionary history of humanity’s particular form of bioluminescence.  The theories were fascinating and he’d devoured each one of them, but the deep discomfort he’d felt at the thought of such an operation had nagged at him, leaving him irritatingly nauseous until he’d abandoned the subject.  He’d grown from the relentlessly bullied child who’d stopped short of trying to carve the lines off his skin—in their faint colorless quiet, he’d learned to see some measure of hope for his future. 

After the BAU, he’d seen each color rise to the surface of his skin, one by one until the moments his arm was left pale and still became the unnatural ones.  He had nightmares sometimes that he woke to find them all scarred over, each line the angry red that promised severed connections and cell death and permanence.  He woke from those dreams gasping, reaching.  If his bed was empty, it never took long for his hand to find light, to grope for his phone and study the thin wisps of silvery skin until he’d counted them at least twice.  Then, the tremor in his hand could subside enough to let him dial.     

On Spencer’s wrist, Rossi’s line was a pale green; Rossi’s answering counterpoint was white, coursing and subtle.  Garcia had said once it meant Spencer was Rossi’s white knight; Morgan had laughed so hard he damn near fell out of his chair.  They never got enough moments like that. 

Rossi’s fingers squeezed lightly against his, drawing Spencer back to the moment, to the thread of conversation he’d let die.  “You make a strong argument, but if it’s only the occasional hour, I have to figure you won’t miss it all that much.  Last hours usually aren’t kind to anyone.” 

“I’ll still take all I can get.” 

“Well, you were a little off.  I didn’t make it through a full half pack anyway.”  Rossi kissed his temple, lingered until he could feel Spencer ease back just a little further into his hold.  “Hey.  I know seeing Henry was good to come back to, but I also know you didn’t leave Vegas alright.  That doesn’t just go away.” 

No, it didn’t.  Other things did- his father, Gideon, apparently his early memories, his ability to trust with absolutely certainty that he held it all, the he knew all the details, all the moments that mattered. 

Reid let his eyes close, his head tipping back to rest against both cushion and Rossi’s shoulder.  “I wanted to thank you, for—“

“Whatever it is, don’t you dare.  We don’t thank each other for—“

“I’m not saying you didn’t want to be there, I’m saying—“  Nothing, with the way his throat closed up on him just as he was sure he’d found his words.  He cleared it, tried again.  “The hypnosis.  You didn’t have to stay, but you did, and I don’t…waking up from that without one of you there, I—“

“I know, Spencer.  Trust me, I’d like to have seen her _try_ to kick me out.” 

When he put it like that, Spencer could see it, too.  He’d seen David angry, more than once.  With his mind put to it, he wasn’t a man that lost many fights.  Spencer shifted, his eyes still closed though he turned enough to nuzzle into Rossi’s neck, breathing him in.  The smoke was a little overwhelming, but underneath there was airport and hospital and Rossi.  The combination was more familiar than it probably should have been. 

“I know.  Thank you.”

“Anytime, kid.”  Lying there with Rossi’s hand in his, he could believe it.  Certainty was a good feeling, one that despite the last few years still felt new, unprecedented. 

Exhausted as he was from the case and the nightmares and the travel, it wasn’t surprising that he could feel himself drifting off before long, his whirring mind starting to disconnect now that he was wrapped up in comfort and warmth, distracted from memory by the absent caress of Rossi’s free hand across his stomach, his arms, his chest, his thighs. 

Half asleep as he was, Rossi had been tracing the crease of his elbow for likely at least a minute before Spencer noticed, before he made the connection.  He tried to sit up properly, gave up when he still felt too heavy and mumbled instead. 

“I didn’t.  I wasn’t…I thought about it, but there’s a meeting tomorrow.” 

“And you’re going?”

“Yeah.  It’s…eidetic memory.  Addiction’s bad enough but I can remember every second of it, I remember just how well it makes me forget and sometimes, ‘s hard to turn that down, I…don’t worry.  I’ve got a year now; I can do it.” 

“Worry is unproductive; that’s Aaron’s job.  I’m just going to take care of you.”  He didn’t have to be awake to hear the guilt there, not when he’d heard it a dozen times before.  It didn’t matter that logically, if Rossi had come back to the BAU in time to be there when Spencer was abducted, none of them would likely have had a chance to meet Emily for years, if ever.  He came back when he should have, fit in as their final puzzle piece right where he belonged.  No amount of telling him that, however, ever seemed to make him feel any better.  In his mind, he should have been there to pull Spencer into his arms in that graveyard;  it didn’t matter that he’d have told any of the others exactly what Spencer had tried to tell him about his lack of guilt.  For himself on some things, Rossi gave no absolution.  “How many minutes does each hit take off your life?”

“Not sure on the statistics for dilauded, can’t calculate without them.”

“Right.  Well, I can guarantee you it’s more than six minutes.”

“Actually, given the amount of carcinogens in cigarettes—“  He was waking up properly word by word, his mind stirring to the challenge of probabilities and remembered research, but Rossi stopped him with a light squeeze of his fingers. 

“Will you just go to sleep?”  Yeah, he could.  He could think of a million conversations better than this one, and sleep was far too tempting to resist.

Later, after a comfortable silence so long and quiet Spencer was almost sure he’d started dreaming, Rossi spoke again. 

“The thing is, I don’t care about the semantics of hours and minutes, but we deal with enough threat of losing one of our own early.  Don’t help those odds, Spencer.  We need you.  _I_ need you.” 

He tried to answer, tried to move, to determine if it was real or if he was dreaming already, but his body wouldn’t respond, and he could feel the steady overlaid rhythm of Rossi’s breath and the beat of his heart.  Rather than fight, Spencer let it pull him all the way under. 


	2. 2. Derek Morgan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter- present but non-graphic sexual abuse of a minor, references to injury, spoilers for canon through 4.01. 
> 
> This chapter directly involves HotchxMorgan, but of course like all of these, ot7 situation is still present :)

**2\. Derek Morgan**

_Before_

Carl Buford had no marks on his wrist whatsoever.  It was a detail Derek had never noticed in team practice, not any of the hundred times Carl’d handed the ball over or pulled him into position for a play—at least, if he’d noticed, he’d never taken it in, not until the cabin.  He glanced down, half drunk, his mouth gone dry as his heart struggled to jackhammer out of his chest.  The rest of the room fuzzed out, the flickering light and heat of the fire, the deep colors of the blanket across the floor, and he saw only Carl’s hand on the inside of his thigh. 

He’d just had his first shot of whiskey not ten minutes before; his thoughts came in a burst, a jumble of sensation and realization and something like prayer.  Buford’s hand was terrifyingly big, invasive, palm rough, wrist bare.  It was nothing like the careful latticework of Derek’s own, nothing at all—for one jolting moment, he was grateful beyond belief for that, for the small mercy that came as he realized there was no light from either of them.  Whatever Buford did, it’d be meaningless.  When it was over, he could walk away.  He could take it, and he could walk away.  He could forget. 

By that first morning, sobered up and cold, he’d already realized forgetting was off the table. 

Back home after that trip, he’d laid in bed awake, counted imperfections in the ceiling till he couldn’t anymore, and he rolled over to trace his long familiar soulmate pattern with the pad of his thumb.  Somewhere, they were waiting.  Somewhere, surely to God they weren’t going through anything like what he was.  He prayed for that, though it was the thought that followed that shamed him, a wish so fleeting he’d silenced it before he really let it breathe—if it was true that you could sense one of your own in trouble, maybe they’d come to him. 

He knew better.  Even if he’d wanted to believe, he knew good and well he couldn’t leave.  His mother needed him, his sisters.  If he didn’t get out and make something of himself, he couldn’t take care of them the way they might need.  He knew, but the fantasy lingered in his mind without his consent, haunted his dreams with rescue and hope for a handful of those first weeks. 

After the fourth trip to the cabin, he stopped praying.  The dreams held on a little longer, but Buford was relentless.  After a while, his shadow dissolved them, too.  With the money he picked up watching his neighbors kids, Derek bought himself a box full of wristbands, soft and pliable but strong enough to withstand football, subtle enough that just maybe he wouldn’t draw Buford’s attention too directly.  The man’s every touch made Derek’s skin crawl but if he could help it, that little patch of skin would be the one goddamn thing he never defiled. 

Sitting on the back of a car in a vacant lot, the girl he’d later take to prom had traced her finger along the design, murmured a breathless ‘sorry’ when Morgan jerked away from the touch like he’d been scalded. 

She looked away, hair half covering her face and muffling her voice.  “Sorry, I only…there’s so many.  It’s pretty.  My dad has two but that, I’ve never seen anything like it.” 

Uncertain where she was going, he only nodded.

“What’s it like, to wonder about so many people?  Where do you think they are right now?”

“Where do I think or where do I hope?”

“I don’t know, isn’t it the same thing?”

It wasn’t, but his answer was.  “With any luck?  Way the hell away from Chicago.” 

 

_After_

The ride back from New York was long, sure, but the walk up flights of stairs to Hotch’s apartment almost felt longer.  The bag was heavy in his hand, fell with a dull thud to the floor when they’d finally made it up and he let go to close the door behind him.  Hotch was just ahead of him, still standing though the rigid set of his shoulders gave his exhaustion away.  The hospital might have reluctantly agreed to release him, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t been more banged up in the explosion than he’d been willing to let them see.  Damn near every inch of his body was likely to be bruised, and if Morgan knew anything about head wounds, Hotch’s had to be damn near killing him.  ( _Had_ to be, but Derek hadn’t seen him take a pill since Jersey.  Troubling, to say the least.) 

“You didn’t have to walk me up here; I appreciate it.”  Hotch took a breath,  maybe deciding, maybe buying himself a second or two, but Morgan stepped forward before he could continue.

“Hey, you’re not runnin’ me out of here just yet; we need to talk.”  He half expected a rebuttal, even a refusal.  The lack of either worried him in a way he couldn’t quite explain, a sick weight that pulled below his throat.  “Hotch.  Will you turn around and look at me?” 

“Morgan—“

“I need you to look at me.”  That did it, like he’d known it would.  So long as he made about his own need, not Hotch’s, he’d follow through.  The careful distance in his eyes that had dropped for a few precious seconds there on the street on New York was back; he noticed that first.  It didn’t make for a promising beginning, but Morgan was resilient.  “Did you really think I wanted to leave the BAU, huh? They tell you they might offer me section chief and you just, what, think I’m gonna jump at it?  You wanna talk about trust, man, that’s part of it too; if you think I’m gonna run, you don’t trust me as much as you think.”  

The shift was subtle, just a transfer of weight and the slow cross of Hotch’s arms across his chest, but as familiar as Morgan was with his layers of subtly, he might as well have declared his intention to profile the absolute truth out of this mess, one way or another.  His eyes narrowed, studying.  Morgan’s jaw clenched. 

“Don’t do that.  I’m tellin’ you the truth; you can’t make a cut at me like that, like I’m the only one with trust issues here when you’re ready and willing to believe that given half a chance I’m gonna bolt.  This is _my_ team too, Hotch; my _family_.  You think I’m gonna turn my back on that to go get a bigger paycheck in New York?”

“It wouldn’t be about the paycheck; it’d be about the distance.  If you stay here, you make the choice to keep letting us in.  If you leave, that’s a choice for distance, both physical and emotional.” 

“Like I said, you think I’m gonna run from this?”

“No.  But I think it’d be easier on you if you did, and sometimes, that’s a hard set of circumstances for anyone to turn down.  So yes, I was scared, and obviously I was wrong to be.  I had to know if given a tempting exit, you’d choose us.”  More than the words, it was the strength of clarity in his voice that hurt, the absolute reality of it.  No matter what front he’d put up for the sake of avoiding this conversation, he’d been turning those answers over in his head since they left the city; Derek could feel it.    “I’m sorry, Derek.  I stand by what I said about your level of trust in the team, but I shouldn’t have doubted you’d stay.” 

“No, you shouldn’t.  I’ve _never-”_   Never shown any signs of wanting out; that was what he’d meant to say, what he should have said.  He caught it instead, his tongue tied up by the uncomfortable truth that it just wasn’t accurate.  There’d been signs, or Hotch couldn’t have profiled doubt out of him.  Hell, Morgan could see them himself- he’d withheld the truth in Chicago, went home alone after a case more often than any of them but Hotch.  He was learning, adapting to life as a whole instead of a misplaced piece, but the progress was slow—slower with Hotch than with any of them, honestly, because for so long there’d been Haley.  Emotionally he was on the same level as everyone else, always had been, but they’d all kept a certain distance with him, out of respect.  He’d chosen Haley before he knew about any of them; the way he was, it wasn’t surprising he’d try to hold to that choice.  Rossi had pressed the issue, of that much he was sure, but as far as Derek knew, no one else had said a damn thing. 

Defensively, he wanted to say he’d kept his silence because he was sure Hotch knew that given the chance, he’d want everything between them to be the way it was meant to be.  Realistically, the profiler in him knew enough to know that wasn’t exactly the whole story.  Hotch might not be right about him wanting to run, but he wasn’t entirely wrong about it being easier to keep some distance, either. 

Morgan took a breath, forced himself to move and close the gap, going in as close as he dared.    “I’ve never said I wanted out, Hotch.  I don’t.  I never will.  But all of this—“  Morgan’s thumb rubbed subconsciously against the heel of his left palm.  “I’m not gonna lie; it’s hard.  But I’m tryin’ here.  I am.  You gotta see that.” 

“I do.  You’ve made incredible progress, with all of us, and I’m grateful.  Any trust you give me matters to me; if I’m more concerned than I should be, I can’t exactly promise I’m always thinking entirely rationally, either.  I only knew that we could have lost you, to the ambulance or a new program.”  His eyes cut away, distracted and pained.  “I didn’t want to face either.” 

Beneath the crack in façade, Morgan could glimpse enough truth to strike him, to spur him into movement before he could think better of it.  His hand came to rest against the base of Hotch’s neck, thumb tapping lightly at his collarbone just beneath the gap of his shirt. 

“Well you’re not losin’ me today, and never by my choice, you understand me?  I’m not walkin’ out on this, Hotch.  In fact I think it’s safe to say none of us are.”  Safer, at least, than it had been to assume _Haley_ would never walk away.  He wouldn’t say it outright; he couldn’t bring himself to, not while it was so fresh.  Someday, maybe they’d talk about her more honestly but for now, reassurance’d have to do.  “I‘m right here.”  Right there, with the warmth of Hotch’s skin radiating up through his shirt, reaching Morgan’s palm.  He was so solid, so ever present that it was hardly possible to think they’d almost lost _him_ , to cast his mind back to chaotic streets and the way his stomach had damn near dropped straight out of his body the moment he’d heard Hotch scream for help.  At the thought, his grip involuntarily tightened.  “We could’ve lost you too, you know. “

“I knew you’d come for us.  If anyone was going to defy orders and pass those barricades—“

“We’d all have done it.”

“Maybe so, but you’d be first.  Particularly if one of our own is in danger you rush in with no heed to your own safety, no—“  Remarkably, charmingly, he smiled.  “Sorry.  That wasn’t meant to be a lecture; I’m only trying to say, I knew you’d come for me, Derek.  _That_ I never doubted.” 

With his throat seizing tight, his answer was short, audibly tight even then.  “Good.”  For a second, his options diverged so clearly he seemed for a moment to actually hold them in his hands.  He could back up, gather himself, thank Hotch, coax him to go to bed and rest, start making himself a bed on the couch…

Or he could close the gap, tug Hotch’s mouth to his and finally claim a kiss that had been years in waiting.  Honestly, the temptation was too great for it to be much of a choice at all.  His grip tightened, twisting into the collar of Hotch’s shirt to pull him in, not that it took much force.  Hotch moved with him, met him in the middle for a kiss that was at first all pressure and chaos, too rough to find a rhythm.  His first kiss as a kid had gone better technically, but given the choice he’d have taken this over it every damn time.  He felt the catch in Hotch’s breath, the strength in his hands as they fastened hard at Derek’s waist to drag him closer. 

Derek took a breath, and tried again.  More controlled and less frantic, they opened to each other a little better, the kiss still rough but dominated by stilting give and take.  In that second attempt, Hotch kissed how Morgan had always imagined he would—forceful and sure and deep, and though Morgan pushed back just enough to keep them almost even, there was something to be said for holding on and letting Hotch take what he wanted.  He could feel the shiver of it up his spine, a shock of mingled pleasure and vulnerability so strong that he had to stop a moment, give himself a chance to gasp with Hotch’s lips still damp against his. 

He’d said nothing, hardly moved, but before he could blink there was a hand at the back of his neck, kneading gently, breath warm against his cheek as Hotch murmured.

“It’s alright.  I’ve got you.” 

It occurred to him, then, that Hotch was the one wounded, the one he’d come there to protect.  If anyone needed comfort, it should have been him, but it was everything he could do to keep his hands from trembling.  He wrapped them up tight in handfuls of Hotch’s shirt instead, leaned into him as hard as he dared and focused on the hand at his neck, the careful pressure of the stroke of his thumb. 

He didn’t say _don’t let go_ , not even when the words crowded at the back of his throat. 

It didn’t matter; Hotch held on tighter anyway. 


	3. 3. David Rossi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't even tell you how happy I am that this thing is getting readers. Seriously, guys, I'm so, so glad to hear from any of you, and I'm so glad you're enjoying this. I'm absolutely fucking loving writing it. <3
> 
> Warnings for this chapter- alcohol use, hints at possible infidelity though none occurs
> 
> Pairings of the ot7 actively seen in this chapter- Hotch/Rossi, Spencer/JJ, JJ/Will, and basically Rossi/everyone, lmao

_Before_

“New kid’s already here.” 

Rossi smiled around a sip of his coffee, shook his head before he glanced toward the sound of Jason’s voice.  “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

“Got here before I did, tried to hide it by catching the elevator up a few minutes after, but I saw him down in the lobby.  He’s been waiting for this.”  Gideon leaned against the glass of his office, eyes trained on the newcomer across the bullpen.  Quickly, Rossi took his own glance—nicer suit than he needed, though not so expensive as to indicate wealth.  His movements were quick, though he seemed to give the file open in his hands his rapt attention.  Gideon had chosen well in that respect at least; the guy was certainly eager. 

“Glad to hear it.  We need all the fresh eyes we can get.”  At just three members, the more attention their team got the more they’d started to be stretched thin.  The more the program expanded, the more profilers they’d need to train.  A few years ago, all of this had seemed an impossibility and now they had guys like _him_ , young and strong and clever, every opportunity ahead of them in the bureau and they chose to come here.  Already, they’d come a hell of a long way from being entirely written off as a ‘fake’ science.

Rossi drained the last of his coffee, leaned inside Gideon’s open office just enough to lob the cup at his trash can.  He was mostly sure he made it.  “Jason.”  Gideon didn’t look away, though the tilt of his chin was enough for Rossi to see he’d gotten his attention.  “Think I’ll go over and meet him now.   You said we had a case?”

Gideon stirred, nodding as he unfolded his arms and stepped forward.  “Two single mothers in Idaho, electrocuted.  The children are missing.” 

“That’s a hell of a case to come in on.” 

Not that there were easy ones, not exactly.  Gideon tilted his head toward the conference room.  “Bring him up when you’re done.  I’d like to go over the details before we head to the airport.” 

As a profiler, there was a certain level of detail he’d trained himself to notice that couldn’t exactly be turned off.  He paid altogether too much attention to detail sometimes, while his wife had argued that others, he didn’t pay the right kind of attention at all.  It did _her_ little good if he could tell her what she’d worn to dinner and what it meant that she’d pulled out her own chair before he got to it if he couldn’t manage to remember why exactly they should have been celebrating. 

Meeting Aaron Hotchner was no different, in that respect.  He noticed no more detail about him than he would have about anyone, man on the train or unsub; it was the specifics that arrested him, the one crucial detail he couldn’t see until they’d shaken hands.  Without a suit coat he saw his own mark activate first, a line of shimmering grey so dark it was almost black.  The shock of it took his breath, gave him the span of a whole second or two where he stared mesmerized.  When he could blink, he refocused, let his eyes flick up and past the cuff of Agent Hotchner’s coat to the glimpse of vibrant orange he could see beneath. 

He’d had a dozen girlfriends and two boyfriends since he was fourteen, married once so far though he teetered on the edge of divorce.  All that time and all those years, and he’d never me a single person that matched to the dormant light under his skin.  Hell, it’d been so long in coming he’d started to think he’d never find one of them at all. 

Knocked thoroughly off his feet, Rossi did his best to recover, forced himself to let go through his fingers folded in on themselves at the loss, as if he were still trying against his own direction to hold on.  He took a breath, tore his eyes away so they could meet clear hazel ones that looked more than a little frightened.  Clearly, Rossi wasn’t the only one who hadn’t seen this coming. 

If Hotchner had said anything at all, Rossi hadn’t registered it.  He cleared his throat, and gave it a fresh shot.  “Agent Hotchner? I’m  SSA David Rossi.” 

“SSA Aaron Hotchner; I’ve studied your cases, when I was a prosecutor preparing for the profiling tests, I read the transcripts of your custodial interviews.  I—“ Before he cut himself off, he’d been talking just a little too fast, not that Rossi could blame the poor kid.  He’d probably rehearsed this introduction a dozen times, but he’d been thrown off his script.  Of all the first meetings he’d gone over that morning on the way in, he likely hadn’t imagined any form of _this_ one.  He breathed deep, and Rossi could see the fear in his eyes dim and fade out.  “It’s an honor to join this team, sir, I—“

“Rossi.  You don’t need to…it’s just Rossi.”  For a moment, he’d been on the edge of saying more, likely too much.  He didn’t want any ceremony between them, he was sure of that much, but the kid was new to the team, and he was still the senior officer.  For that, he couldn’t go as personal as he felt inclined to just yet; he knew next to nothing and until he did, he’d have to strive to maintain middle ground.  Rossi would have to do. 

“Rossi.  I only meant, I’m grateful for the opportunity.  I know at least one of the applicants had more recent time in the field, and I really do appreciate being given a chance coming from a background with a different focus.” 

Light and casual, his eyes raked over Agent Hotchner again, nodding as he listened.  A quick pass, but he came up with more- he had a wedding ring and his thumb was pressed to it, but he’d shaken his wrist just slightly some time after Rossi had let go of his hand, as if the loss of contact clung to him like a film.  Obviously, he was conflicted at the very least.  Difficult as it was likely to be, at least conflicted was a place to start. 

Rossi smiled.  “Happy to have you here; as I’m sure you’ve heard the BAU only keeps growing.  What that says about our society I’m not sure I want to know, but at least we’re catching a few more.  That’s something.”  Looking back, he met Jason’s eyes through the window, unsurprised to find they’d been watched.  “Come on.  Gideon needs us to go over the case before we head out.  We’ll be going to Idaho; I assume you brought a go bag?” 

“Under my desk, si—“  For a split second, it looked like he almost smiled.  “Rossi.” 

“Good.  I never know what I’ve left out of mine; you seem the type to carry extra socks and toothpaste.” 

His actual smile came quicker than Rossi expected, though it was there and gone by the time he blinked.  The warm aftereffect of pride in managing to _get_ that smile— that, on the other hand, lingered in Rossi’s chest all the way up to the office. 

Once he saw the case board, David resolved to put it all out of his mind until the case was over, and if not for Gideon, he’d almost have succeeded.  Instead, Hotchner passed him a file and he took it without a second’s hesitation, their fingers brushing.  The light flared, and though they both managed to this time only slightly skip a beat, Rossi knew Gideon far too well to think he could’ve missed it.  If the sudden rise in his eyebrows was any indication, he certainly hadn’t. 

At the airport, he almost, _almost_ tried to get a chance to talk to the kid alone, but there was Gideon and the case and even if there hadn’t been, he wasn’t quite sure just yet what exactly it was he wanted to say.  Before they boarded, Hotchner called his wife and Rossi half listened from a few feet away, turning his own wedding ring over and over around his finger until it burned. 

He didn’t get that chance to talk until after the case.  In terms of numbers, on this one, they’d come out on top- a final total of four dead mothers, one dead child, six children saved.  It should have felt more like a win, but no case involving the words ‘dead child’ ever really did.  His prediction hadn’t been wrong; it was a hell of a first case, but he had to hand it to Hotch that he’d hardly flinched.  At least, so long as he’d been with them—whether he’d been closing his eyes when he got back to his room at night was a different matter entirely, and it was one Rossi doubted.  The last few days in particular, the dark circles under his eyes had seemed pretty deeply cemented in. 

With their flight out not until midmorning, Rossi’s list of reasons for postponing that talk they needed to have had gotten pretty damn short. 

He went to room 901 armed with a bottle of scotch and two plastic cups, and it was more of a relief than he ever could have articulated to see from the look on Hotch’s face when he opened the door that his presence wasn’t entirely unexpected. 

“Hey.  I was just packing.”  Likely, though it looked more like he’d stopped halfway through undressing.  His tie was off, shirt open to reveal a thin white t-shirt beneath.  It shouldn’t have looked so damn revealing; after all, technically he was still fully clothed. 

David swallowed hard, tried to hide it behind what was hopefully an easy smile.  “We’ve got time; plane doesn’t leave till after eleven.  That leaves us plenty of time for a little good scotch, if you’re up for it?”

“Yeah, come in.”  There was a rickety table by the window, old and uneven with bar chairs missing a couple rungs.  Clearly, this place had seen better days.  Rossi poured carefully, splashed just a little extra into Hotch’s before he slid it over. 

Trusting that he’d notice, Rossi shrugged as he picked up his own cup.  “It’s your first case.  You’ve earned a little extra.” 

There was that smile of his again, flicker fast but so damn beautiful.  Rossi could feel the heat of it in his chest, hot and sharp and heavy like he’d already taken a hit of whiskey.  He rubbed his thumb over the ribbing on his cup, picked it up to knock the rim against Hotch’s. 

“To your first case.  Well done, Agent Hotchner.” 

“Thank you.” 

They drank, and Rossi catalogued.  Kid didn’t drink scotch like he was a stranger to it, rather like he knew it too well.  Careful but deep, a measured mouthful.  Long time exposure likely, maybe since high school, on and off?  Maybe, but he hadn’t come in here just to profile.  Rossi cleared his throat, turned his cup between his fingers. 

“So…we should talk.”  Almost more telling than any other detail he’d collected was the absolute lack of denial, the failure to even feign to question what it was exactly they needed to talk about.  Instead, he only nodded, and drank again.  The plastic dented under Rossi’s thumb.  “When I was kid, I had so much faith in…all of this.”  He sat back, gestured at wrist though he knew it didn’t require much clarification.  They weren’t touching, but even this close there was a faint glow beneath their skin, like low burning embers.  “I thought I’d find every last one of us before I was twenty.  But, I finished high school, joined the Marines, came to the Bureau…the more years went by, the less it seemed likely.  I spent enough time at work pulling needles out of haystacks, I guess I thought…” 

That he was tired of seeking out haystacks, partially.  More than that, though, the sense of absolute powerlessness had troubled him.  With an unsub, he at least knew where to begin to look.  Finding your soulmate in a world that gave you no clues beyond a positive/negative confirmation had seemed increasingly maddeningly daunting.  It had begun to make sense why some people never found theirs at all—there was always going to be life to live, work to do.  He couldn’t drop everything to seek out people he may realistically never find. 

Across the table, Hotch nodded as if he’d finished the thought, rolled up his sleeves and leaned back in his chair.  “When I met Haley—“  He said her name with such affection it actually hurt, a quick cut that had Rossi reaching for his scotch.  He swallowed until the burn of the whiskey pained him just a little more.  “—she almost broke up with me, over the marks.  With so many, she was afraid any life I made with her would never be enough, would never feel right even if I never found…she was so sure, but I changed her mind.  I convinced her the odds of finding even one were against me, that it’d probably never even be an option to face.  I knew I loved her and I thought it was…marrying her seemed like the right thing to do.” 

“Makes sense.  You’re measuring a known against an unknown; most times, the feelings you already know you have take precedence over uncertain future prospects.” 

Hotch looked up, quick and a little hopeful.  “Your wife, did you—“

“It’s not exactly like that, no, it’s…it is what it is.  I’d give it a few more months.”  Not many, though, not by his count or Gideon’s.  Hotch’s face fell, and he almost wished he’d lied.  Almost.  “It’s alright.  It’s been a long time coming.” 

“Rossi—“

“Hey.”  He took a chance, knocked his knuckles against Hotch’s where he held his cup.  He didn’t pull away, let the contact linger until Rossi pulled back on his own, took a sip before finishing.  “We’re drinking, off the clock.  So long as it’s just you and me, I’m just Dave.  Okay?” 

“Okay.”  Jesus, the kid could hold eye contact like no one he’d ever seen.  David blinked, found himself looking down to study the fake woodgrain of the table while he waited for Hotch to pick back up where he’d interrupted. 

“Dave—“  His name in that voice sounded good, right in a way he couldn’t fully place.  The alcohol was starting to buzz just a little under his skin, sure, but he couldn’t blame _it_ for the way his heart jolted just then.  “I don’t think we can ignore what this is, and even if we could, it’s not the choice I’d want to make.  I never thought I’d find this either, and knowing I have, I can’t look away from that.  But I made a commitment to Haley, I—“

“And you can’t break it because of me, and I wouldn’t ask you to.”  He wouldn’t, not outright, no matter how much he might want it, no matter what he himself would be willing to do. 

“Whatever else I feel, I can’t just—“

“I know; I know.  It’s alright.”  Alright, and a little more than, really, because Rossi’s head would probably be stuck turning those words over for a few days.  To have said _whatever else I feel_ , he sure as hell had to feel something.  He could live with that, for now. 

“Is it?”  He sounded rough, guilty and pained. 

“Yeah, kid.  Whatever you want this to be, it’s okay with me.”  This time, Rossi did a better job holding his gaze. 

“I don’t want it to be nothing.  Maybe that’s asking too much, but I—“

“ _Whatever you want_.  It’s all okay.”  Given the relieved slump of his shoulders, even slight as it was, Rossi could tell that unconditional acceptance on a personal level wasn’t something he was used to.  Professionally he’d excelled, but personally…outside of Haley, Rossi’d be willing to bet his list of lasting personal relationships ran short.  In different ways, this’d be new for both of them.  Smiling, Rossi leaned forward and unfastened the cuffs of his shirt, rolled them up as he nodded toward the bottle.  “Go on, Aaron.  Why don’t you pour us a little more?  You can pack in the morning.” 

This time, his smile lasted. 

 

_After_

In the early years, it had taken most of the tour for Rossi to get tired of answering questions about the BAU.  These days, by the time he’d made it through three or four cities he was already burnt out on every single facet of it from standing in front of a crowd alone to the questions to the return to an empty hotel room.  It didn’t matter that he spent a good portion of the year in empty hotel rooms; it was different so long as they were with him.  If they were working a case, it was enough to know they were close, to know that if he went to any of their doors and knocked at 2 AM, they’d be there. 

Travel alone had held something for him years ago, but for the life of him it was a feeling he couldn’t recapture.  By the time the tour he was on hit Denver, he was six days into a thirteen day stint.  Roughly halfway through, and already he couldn’t wait to go home.  That night, his last question had only made it worse. 

_Agent Rossi, what’s it like working such dangerous cases now that that team is full of your soulmates?  How is it different than the first time around?  Does it make the job harder?_

For half a second, the reply he couldn’t make had hovered behind his tongue.  _What’s it like?  It’s terrifying; what do you think?  You think I like seeing the worst kind of monsters routinely pull weapons on the people I love?_

Instead of letting it out, he’d bitten his tongue, and spoke with more moderation.  _It doesn’t make the job harder, no; if anything it makes it easier.  Our success record now is better than it was when Ryan and Gideon and I started the BAU, and there’s a few reasons for that.  Our profiles have improved with every year of data and every bit of experience we collect, but the way we work together as a team has had an effect on those statistics, too.  We know each other on a level that enables us to work more closely than a team that doesn’t share the same connections.  When so much depends on how we come together both to form the profile and bring in the unsub, that bond we have does make a big difference._

 _But as for what it’s **like**?  In a lot of ways, it’s great.  I get to go to work every day with the people that mean the most to me in the world.  Not many people get that; I know I’m very lucky.  It also means every time we go out in the field to catch one of these killers, there’s an undeniable level of risk.  It’s terrifying, and comforting.  It’s why units like ours are famous for doing so well in the military, in law enforcement.  No one’s gonna do a better job watching your back than someone who can’t bear to lose you.  There’s hardly any stronger motivation than that kind of terror, and I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t terrifying.  Still, we get the job done, and we do it well.  We’re all proud of that, and I know for every one of us, backing down from this job isn’t an option.  I tried once, and look where that got me._  

He’d gotten the laugh he’d tried for there at the end, but he hadn’t had quite enough energy leftover to properly care.  Particularly when he wasn’t with them, talking about the kind of danger they faced were exactly the kind of questions he’d rather avoid.  He could remember a dozen close calls in vivid detail at the snap of his fingers, and those were just from the last year.  Hell, last month Emily had nearly been shot.  Morgan had taken the unsub and Rossi had been the first to go her, to pull her up into his arms and see that the bullet had buried safely into her vest.  He hadn’t noticed his hand was trembling until she’d caught it in hers. 

He’d gone to bed thoroughly exhausted, told himself it was too late to call home. 

In the morning, he woke up to two texts from Derek, a link in the first, commentary in the second.  _Hey, when you get a chance, take a look at this.  Think I’ve got us a project to tackle when you get back.  Place dates back to the 20’s._

By looks of it, not much had been done to it _since_ the 20’s, but it was just Derek’s kind of place, full of woodwork and crumbling walls that’d take up a satisfying amount of Saturdays.  He’d barely answered when an e-mail came through, no title, no message, just Hotch’s address and a video file. 

In it, he sat in front of his computer in a faded green t-shirt, somehow looking pretty put together for someone who’d likely not been long out of bed.  In his lap, Jack sat up straight as he could for the camera, craning his head toward the dot above the monitor like it wouldn’t pick him up unless he stretched. 

“Hey, Dave.  When I told Jack you couldn’t come by this weekend, we thought it’d be a good idea to make you a video so he could say hello in case we get called away his next weekend.  Right, buddy?” 

“Hi, Uncle Dave!”  Part answer, part enthusiastic and not quite on script.  His obvious excitement made Rossi chuckle. 

“What did you want to tell him about our Saturday?”  Hotch looked at Jack the way he always did, all rapt attention and seriousness, like every word mattered.  He never condescended, and he never had.  Of all the things that made him an excellent father, that might have been Rossi’s favorite. 

“We made pancakes!”

“We did, and what else are we going to do?” 

“A bike ride, with Aunt Emily.” 

“That’s right.  And—“

“And you should come home, cause we miss you.” 

On screen, Hotch ruffled Jack’s hair, leaned in to kiss his forehead.  “He’ll be home soon; you’ll see him next time mommy brings you over.”

Rossi murmured at the screen, useless but instinctive.  “You will.  I promise.” 

Jack rambled briefly about bikes and paint and Saturdays, stopped only as his attention span started to wane.  Near the end, Jack leaned forward far enough that his hands pressed into the desk, holding him up.  Hotch leaned with him, one arm around his waist. 

“What do you say, Jack?”

“Bye, Uncle Dave!  We love you!”

Aaron’s goodbye was more subdued, but it didn’t matter.  Everything he could’ve said was in his eyes as he smiled.  “Have a good day; I’ll talk to you tonight.” 

David nodded, let his fingertips brush the screen, drifting light over both of them.  “Yeah.   I love you, too.” 

By midmorning, he had a text from Emily informing him that he should consider the frozen lasagna she’d be having for dinner a cry for help.  (To convince him, she included a picture.  It did look rather sad.) 

That afternoon, JJ called in the middle of a conversation he’d been having with his agent.  Rossi put him on hold and answered, formal out of habit.  “Rossi.”

“You gotta help me, Spence is—“

“ _Don’t_ help her; she’ll never learn if you do!”

He caught laughter, hers and maybe Will’s, and a scuffle for the phone.  “Dave, please, he says he’s tryin’ to teach me how to play chess but he’s killing me, here.   You know he’s too good at this for a beginner; I need all the help I can get.” 

The other line beeped in his ear, and Rossi sighed.  “If I could stay on the line and help you—“

“ _Please_ —“

“—I would, but I have to get back to this before my agent shows up outside my door.”  He dropped his voice, low and conspiratorial in case Spencer was still straining to listen.  “If you can get a shot of the board on your phone without him seeing, I’ll help you out.”

“You’re the best; I’ll see what I can do.” 

As she hung up, he could already hear Reid starting to argue. 

That night, after his second Denver reading at a bookstore across town, he called Garcia from the backseat of the car on the way to the hotel. 

“Rossi!  You know, I was just about to call you, I—“

“Have spent the day plotting; don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

“I wouldn’t have the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”

“I’m sure you wouldn’t, but unless we’re working a case, Morgan doesn’t text.  Well, not often.  So I started off suspicious, but the steady stream of _everyone_ that came after that—“

“Alright, there might have been a little plotting, but you’re totally off.  All the plotting happened last night.”  Across the phone, he could hear her smile.  “See, I keep tabs on how often any of your names shows up on social media in case of…anything I might need to know.”

Anything, like a public shooting.  She wouldn’t want to talk about the prospect, and he didn’t call her on it. 

“So last night I got a notification about a lot of hits on yours which led to this video that had started making the circuit around twitter and tumblr of you answering a question about us at a bookstore last night in Denver.  All I could find were people going on about how it was so romantic and heartfelt and people in our situations don’t talk about their partners enough in public, etc. etc., so I watched this video, and yes, it was sweet, but they don’t know you like I do and—“  For once since she’d started, Garcia paused to take a proper breath.  “It just made me sad, because you looked so lonely.  You were upset, and all alone and…I don’t know, I thought it might do you good to hear from everyone, so I didn’t do much really I just kind of nudged them in the right direction?” 

By nudged, she probably meant she’d sent them all the video and her comments on it at two or three AM or whatever godawful time it’d made it up online back east.  Leaning forward, Rossi let his head rest in his hands.  “You know, I think Morgan’s right about you.”

“That I’m a sexy goddess?”

“I wouldn’t deny it.”  She laughed with him, though he called her out of it before she could change the subject.  “Penelope.”

“Yes?”

“You’re an angel.”

“I’m not; I just take care of you the way I can.  Morgan can do the dramatic physical rescues, I just do what I can with emotional rescues.  It’s not the same as swooping in and bringing you home from Denver, but—“

“But it matters.  You weren’t wrong; it helped.” 

“Then my work here is done.” 

“Oh no it isn’t, I haven’t heard from _you_ all day.”

“See, I really _was_ about to call you but—“

She fell into a flurry of words, and Rossi leaned back against the seat and listened, eyes closing as he lost himself in her rhythm. 

He’d reached the end of day seven, just past the halfway point.  For now, at least, home didn’t seem so unbearably far away. 


End file.
